


Pranks Gone Wrong

by annmacbain



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: April Fools' Day, Brolock, Bromance, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, PTSD John, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pranks and Practical Jokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-02-12
Packaged: 2018-03-12 02:40:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3340562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annmacbain/pseuds/annmacbain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was April Fools Day and, honestly, who could blame them for wanting to take the great Sherlock Holmes down a peg or two?  I mean, it was just a joke!  Until it went wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pranks Gone Wrong

The prank had been meant for Sherlock. Some of the boys down at the Yard thought it would be funny to set up a paint gun to go off when Sherlock stepped through the door to the evidence locker to have a look at a current case. It was April Fool’s day, after all, and what harm could there be in taking Sherlock down a few notches?

Only they didn’t get Sherlock.

Sherlock had stopped just outside the door to argue with Lestrade, so John decided to go on ahead and wait for them to finish up with their old married couple like bickering. The moment he opened the door he heard the whoosh of the gun and felt the painful sting of a red paintball hitting his shoulder—his left one.  
Clutching at his chest, John began screaming as he collapsed onto the ground.

“Oh no, no! Please, no! Please, God, let me live!”

John continued to scream and writhe on the ground as vague images of his fellow soldiers crowded into his view of hot desert sands and clear, deep blue skies. He could tell he was talking, but he had no idea what he was saying. The pain, the feeling of his blood escaping his body with every pump of his treacherous heart, was overwhelming. Why did this have to happen to him again?

Wait… again?

Suddenly, the bullet wound was not a gaping hole in his shoulder, but a faint and fairly annoying ache. He was not in the desert, but the NSY building, on the ground, just outside of evidence. The people above him were not his teammates, but Sherlock and Lestrade, both looking extremely concerned and more than a little panicky. He also became aware that they were constantly saying his name. To add to his humiliation, John realized that he also had tears and possibly more than a little snot on his face.

Becoming deeply embarrassed by his current predicament, John hurriedly sat up and tried to reassure his friends. “I’m fine, I’m fine, really. Sorry, I just… I just, uh-”

“Shut up John, you have nothing to apologize for,” said Lestrade as he stood up to send an angry and stern glare into the evidence room. Following his gaze, John realized that there had been people in the room watching the entire incident with apprehensive looks on their faces. Anderson was holding a camera in his limp hands. “Who,” asked Lestrade, his charged gaze not wavering in the least, “thought that it would be funny to commit assault on a civilian inside of New Scotland Yard?”

No one answered, with many refusing to look up from their shoes. Lestrade continued. “Right. Lt. Atkinson is going to take down your names and badge numbers, and even if Doctor Watson decides not to press charges or sue the lot of you, you will all be written up for this. Sherlock,” Lestrade paused here as he sent both he and John an apologetic look, “why don’t you and John go home? We’ll continue our, uh, enthusiastic discussion later, yeah?”

Thankful that Lestrade wasn’t going to force them to stick around to file some kind of incident report, John allowed Sherlock to help him up to his feet, and hold his arm as he made his shaky way out of the building, the red paint probably staining his new jumper.  
He was also extremely glad that Sherlock didn’t say a single word to him all the way home.

 

The next couple of days are a nightmare—literally.

John hasn’t been able to sleep for more than a few hours at a time. His nights have turned into a tiring ritual of waking up every few hours tangled in the bed sheets crying, making tea while he calms down, and repeating the process over and over again until the sweet release of dawn. Even during the daylight hours he couldn’t help feeling tense. He can’t relax, always looking for the enemy, always expecting that something was about to happen. He had a hard time treating patients, constantly suspicious of them and afraid of what they might do when his back is turned.

Sherlock had tried to talk to him about it. He had tried to reason with John, but he remained stubborn and deflected all of Sherlock’s questions and speeches. He was fine. Really. It would go away by itself. He didn’t need any help. He had hardly reacted to the failed prank anyway. He was fine. Just fine.

Lestrade came 'round the flat the day after the incident to ask John about whether or not he wanted to press charges. John declined, declaring that the disciplinary actions Lestrade would take on his officers were enough for him. When he started to inquire about the incident itself, John quickly and politely kicked Lestrade out of the flat as soon as he could, trying to derail his concerns all the way. The reassurances he used then were the ones he had been using ever since the whole incident began.

“I’m fine. Nothing really happened, anyway. I’m fine.”

After a week of near sleeplessness after the incident, the Yard had a new case for them. Sherlock seem somewhat reluctant to bring John, but he refused to be left behind like a simpering child, and pushed his way past Sherlock and out the door.

So John may have made a slight miscalculation.

The young woman’s neck had been sliced, and there was so much blood everywhere. John couldn’t help but remember the little faces of Afghani girls he had once found, all executed for trying to learn how to read. Of young dead boy soldiers, forced to kill and be killed long before they would even get their first hint of a beard. John’s hand was constantly clenching in an arrhythmic motion, sweat breaking out on his forehead, and his leg felt weak. He was so distracted that he did not realize that Sherlock had been calling his name until Sherlock had grabbed him by the shoulders and commanding him to breathe. It was only then that he discovered that he had nearly hyperventilated, and John started taking in long deep breaths to calm his racing heart.

Looking around, John realized that he had attracted the attention of everyone in the room. They kept trying to look as though they weren’t paying attention, but they were all failing horribly. John also noticed that some of the faces in the current room had also been in the evidence room the week before. Blushing uncontrollably and wanting desperately to escape, John muttered something about forgetting to get the milk the other day and walked out of the room with squared shoulders, his head held high and his heart still racing.

 

That night when Sherlock came home, John tried to pretend to be asleep where he was in order to avoid conversation. However, he was admittedly not known to pass out at the kitchen table, so his ploy didn’t work as well has he had hoped. Sherlock came and stood next to John, unmoving, and waited. Eventually, John’s arm began going numb under his head, so he decided to get this over with as soon as possible. Not even pretending to wake up, John stood and walked around Sherlock, asking if he might like a cuppa.

“John, we need to talk.”

Continuing to the kitchen, John studiously ignored him.

Sherlock followed him. “John, stop being so childish. I must-“

Banging his hand down on the counter, John turned to face Sherlock. “Must what, Sherlock? Hold my hand whenever I get scared? Comfort me whenever there’s a lightning storm? Pat me on the head and tell me that it will all get better? What? Nothing happened. I’m fine.”

After a few moments of silence, Sherlock quietly replied, “No. You’re really not.” John just sighed and put his head in his hands. “I know you don’t want to admit it, but the paintball incident made you relive the moment you were shot in Afghanistan. I observed that much, and almost everyone there probably deduced it as well. You cannot sleep. You barely eat. You are constantly on high alert, and you have gained back the tremor in your left hand. That is why I got you this.”  
John raised his head to see Sherlock holding out a bottle of prescription pills. Taking them from his friend’s hands, John recognized them as the same kind of medications he had been taking after he had been invalided home from Afghanistan. John didn’t even question how Sherlock knew about these, or even how he had gotten hold of them.

“I know you hate them. You are an appalling patient. But they will help.”

Nodding, John muttered a soft and defeated “thank you” and went off to bed. That night he got a full night’s sleep. It still took some time to fully come down from the nightmarish and embarrassing affair, but he did accomplish it eventually. Life went on. And John, finally, allowed others help him heal.

**Author's Note:**

> So I did this for a prompt, but I don't know where the original prompt went. Someone was feeling angsty about practical jokes and made a request for something like this. Also, this is my first fan fic, so be gentle with me and point out any mistakes you see. Hope you enjoy!


End file.
